


Just Turn Up

by Lokesenna



Category: British Actor RPF, Irish Actor RPF, Scottish Actor RPF, X-Men RPF, X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: A pair of soiled shorts, Drunken Confessions, Drunkenness, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-29
Updated: 2014-08-29
Packaged: 2018-02-15 05:37:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2217735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lokesenna/pseuds/Lokesenna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Fassbender! You’re here,” James beamed, all bright blue eyes and sunshine at three in the fucking morning.</p><p>“Fucking hell, James,” Michael groaned and as the door swung open, James stumbled in, flailing about, all thrashing appendages and obnoxious noises and hair... unruly, messy, dark brown bordering greyish hair that flowed into ginger stubble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Turn Up

**Author's Note:**

> _"I think the most romantic thing you can do is just turn up. Turn up when it's difficult for you. Travel halfway around the world or just up the road. Whatever it is, just be there."  
>  -James McAvoy_

Michael wasn't a particularly _deep_  sleeper anyway, so the pounding sound emitting from the front of the hotel room startled him awake instantly. The Irishman jolted upright in bed, heart pounding much faster than it should have been for having just woken up. When the pounding didn’t relent, he groped the bedside table for the light, staring in the direction the sound was coming from. Nothing like this had ever happened to him before, and he wasn’t sure what to do. Usually hotel security was tight enough that he didn’t have to worry, but who else could be pounding at his door at three in the morning besides an extremely enthused fan?  
  
Apprehensively, Michael slid out of bed, picking up his discarded robe to cover his sleeping attire that consisted of nothing more than a pair of shorts. The pounding persisted and Michael tiptoed toward the door cautiously, clutching at his cell phone that he’d swiped off the nightstand. Shifting from foot to foot, he gripped the door handle and double checked that the privacy lock was securely in place before he pulled the door open.  
  
The actor swallowed down a shriek of surprise when James’ face pressed into the small crack between the door and the frame.  
  
“Fassbender! You’re here,” James beamed, all bright blue eyes and sunshine at three in the fucking morning.  
  
“Fucking hell, James,” Michael groaned, pushing James’ face back and hurriedly closing the door to remove the privacy lock and open the door all the way. As the door swung open, James stumbled in, flailing about, all thrashing appendages and obnoxious noises and hair... unruly, messy, dark brown bordering greyish hair that flowed into ginger stubble.  
  
“You’re like some leprechaun. Thank you for opening my door for me… can’t find my bloody key card anywhere.”  
  
Michael just stood, staring, as bit by bit articles of James’ clothing were tossed about like confetti. Shaking his head at the obviously intoxicated, tipping, tripping James who was trying really hard not to fall over while he took his socks off, Michael closed and locked the door, and berated himself for not realising immediately that James was drunk. Of course he was drunk. Michael blamed a lack of sleep and the fact that he had been woken up just minutes ago for not realising it sooner. He wasn’t even going to think about how James just called him a leprechaun―not now, not ever. When James was down to just his underwear, with his thumbs tucked into the waistband, ready to discard the shorts, too, Michael rushed forward. “No, no, no, no. James, mate… you leave those on,” Michael all but yelled, grabbing his wrists and stopping him before he could reveal more than pubes―neat, tidy, slightly curly pubes, Michael noted, then shook his head to dispel that thought.  
  
“But I like to sleep nude,” James complained, going so far as to pout his lower lip out at Michael. Okay. _Definitely_ drunk.  
  
“Not tonight,” Michael said firmly. James huffed and groaned and fluttered those insanely blue eyes up at Michael, tilting his hips forward and blinking with the kind of innocence he knew was entirely acted. Michael shook his head. A naked―drunk―James in Michael’s hotel room would be a very, very bad thing.  
  
“Honestly Michael…”  
  
“Just get in bed.”  
  
Michael guided James toward the bed and he fought him every step of the way, loudly proclaiming, “I usually like you as a boyfriend, Michael, but you’re not bein’ fair.”  
  
Michael was equal parts amused and strangely aroused by petulant, drunk James who was all but throwing a temper tantrum. His Scottish accent was heavy, thick, and slurred, and hilariously whiny for a man in his mid-thirties. “We’re not boyfriends, James.”  
  
“We fuckin’ are,” James shot back, throwing himself down on the bed. Sitting cross-legged in Michael’s spot, he demonstrated how exactly they came to be boyfriends. “We are friends and definitely not female. We are boyfriends,” he stated plainly, raising his two index fingers and mashing the pads together.  
  
Again, Michael didn’t know whether to be amused or aroused. He decided it was best not to comment – encouraging someone who was drunk never went anywhere good - and let his robe slide to the floor while James watched with a slack jaw. Crawling onto the bed, he knelt in front of James and gripped him by the shoulders then shoved him as hard as he could to the other side of the bed. Flicking off the light, Michael grabbed the blankets and pulled them over himself. It was only moments before there were too-loud whispers in his ear and ridiculously sturdly limbs pushing under his blankets.  
  
“Michael, your hair smells like me nan’s shortbread.”  
  
“Go to sleep, James.”  
  
“Michael, I want to talk.”  
  
“Go to sleep, James.”  
  
“I want to talk, Fassbender.”  
  
“Go. To. Sleep. James.”  
  
“Your hair smells bleedin’ delicious.”  
  
“ _Go to sleep, James._ ”  
  
“Fucking hell, Michael! I have  _feelings_ , and I want to talk about them.”  
  
Sighing, Michael stayed silent. James’ whispers were literally right against his ear when they came, lips brushing against it as he spoke, and every few sentences, there was a tongue flicking, either to wet James’ chapped – and sinfully pink – lips or to drive Michael insane, he didn’t know which was more likely at that point. “There was this girl, and she had soft hair like yours, Michael. Same color and everything. Bronze. She didn’t like it when I called her Michael; I guess that wasn’t her name. I did like her hair though, even if it didn’t smell like yours.” A muscular thigh curling over Michael’s hips made him tense. James rolled closer, draping himself over Michael and burning his nose with the smell of liquor and this unknown girl and then just  _James_. Fuck. “She wanted to do shots, so I said okay and let her lick the salt off my neck.”  
  
Michael stiffened further, the uncomfortable sting of jealousy making him nearly sick. His nostrils flared with an angered breath, and he didn’t really think first before searching for a handful of James’ dark hair, then pulling his head back enough to find his mouth. He tasted sickeningly of Beer, Scotch, Tequila and lime and something that Michael didn’t even want to think about. All he wanted to think about was making sure that James could taste only him in his mouth.  
  
James moaned into the kiss, pressing his knee between Michael’s legs and rolling partially on top of him. The hardness Michael could feel at his hip made his own arousal swell as he continued to plunder James’ mouth with his tongue until James had to pull away gasping.  
  
“Michael, you’re the only one I want,” James slurred breathlessly. Michael ignored his drunken babble and pulled him in for another kiss. James slanted and tilted his hips, thrusting and grinding until he was really just humping madly at Michael’s thigh, too intoxicated to be moved to much else.  
  
The amusement was really starting to win again. James was soft flesh and warm skin, and he felt wonderful to hold close, but he stunk of his previous activities and Michael was too fixated on that to work up a solid erection. He wanted James coherent, clean, and all _his_ the first time they did this together, and so he simply aided James along with kisses and touches until James was a quivering mess of drunk, horny man grinding against him, knowing the Scot would most likely not even remember this in the morning.  
  
“Nnngh, _Michael_ ,” James finally groaned, his hips jerking and then stuttered, and his teeth sunk into the skin on Michael’s shoulder, biting as he moaned out his orgasm. The Irishman counted backwards from ten in his head, stalling at three for about ten seconds then rushing to zero when James snored into his neck. He rolled his fellow actor off of him and covered him up with a blanket, tucking it around his edges to make sure he’d stay warm.  
  
Curling up against his pillows, he closed his eyes and decided that it was easiest to be amused. In the morning, when James woke up, he’d have a hangover from hell with his underwear adhered to his lower half and no recollection of pretty much anything at all and he’d have to deal with that during a full day’s worth of interviews and film promotions, which, hopefully, would make him think twice about doing this again.

Maybe next time he’d come to Michael first.

Maybe… just maybe.    
  
The Scot would wake up to jokes from Michael about nocturnal emissions, and claim that he couldn’t have possibly had a wet dream, all while being red in the face. Then he’d get moody and grumpy and Michael would have to tell him the truth, would have to confess his own feelings, because fuck… as drunk as James had been, there had been _some_ truth in all of this. Michael would help him shower and peel off his messy underwear and James would be all tiny pained kisses and narrowed eyes at Michael’s mouth-shaped bruise.

Then there would be mind-blowing sex followed by more sex… followed by… truly… really… being boyfriends. _Maybe._  
  
It was on those comforting thoughts that Michael fell into a peaceful sleep – it had nothing to do with a warm hand somehow winding up in his own and a warm body curling up against his side.


End file.
